


Lifeguards

by Spatchcock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22391557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatchcock/pseuds/Spatchcock
Summary: Hell might approve of what this man had done.Crowleydoes not approve.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 137





	Lifeguards

It is a perfectly lovely day. The sun is warm but not overbearing. The slice of sky visible between the curtains is an achingly brilliant blue. There is only one thing which could make this morning even more perfect. Crowley reaches a lanky arm behind him for his angel to provide it.

He is not there.

_Fuck._

Crowley collapses back into the pillow and clutches it against the imminent onslaught of cheer. He knows what’s coming.

The onslaught bustles into the bedroom, wearing Crowley’s favorite summer dressing gown and bearing two cups of tea. “Good morning, my dear!” Aziraphale carols. “Time to get up! We’re going to the beach.” 

“Wrblrwr, rwblr?” Crowley mutters from the depths of the pillow.

“We are indeed. The Bentley is packed. We can stop at that lovely new coffee shop for breakfast on the way.” 

That gets his attention. “You _packed_ the Bentley?” he says blearily, raising his head and squinting golden eyes at his husband. It’s far too early to be awake. It’s _definitely_ too early for Aziraphale to be out of his arms.

“Not very much. Hardly anything. It is quite spacious, you know.” Aziraphale sits perfectly upright on their decadent bed and sips his tea. It’s practically indecent how chipper he can be in the morning. Particularly when he ought to be naked and lying down, preferably with a mouthful of — well. 

Crowley props himself up and accepts his cuppa grudgingly, even though he knows Aziraphale will have it made exactly to his taste. “And how much is ‘hardly anything,’ angel?”

“A few blankets and towels, an umbrella, a beach chair, and a cooler for the wine and nibbles.” 

Crowley glowers for form’s sake. “Fine. Seafood restaurant on the way home.” 

“Agreed!” the angel chirps, and then there’s nothing for it but to get up and get dressed. 

Crowley doesn’t mind the beach, come to that; the warmth appeals to his reptilian side, and he does enjoy a swim. A day in the car and lounging on warm sand together with his angel frankly sounds like a good idea. It’s been nearly a year since the world didn’t end, nearly a year since the two of them had declared their own side and acknowledged what they were to each other after six thousand years. Nearly a year of waking up next to soft curly blond hair and blue eyes and the most adoring smile. Nearly a year of sharing himself, his truest self, with the one being in all existence who really knows him and understands him, and loves him anyway. Nearly a year of being _allowed_ to love Aziraphale, openly and publicly and without apology. Of being allowed to say the words, to shower him with flowers and chocolates and kisses, to bring him little gifts without coming up with increasingly improbable excuses, to watch bad telly with his head in his angel’s lap, to put up with snippy comments on his taste in music, to walk in the park arm-in-arm, to tease Aziraphale about his taste in clothes, to drink rare liquors and cheap rotgut and local whites and Spanish reds, to have picnics, to cook preposterous French meals, to have loud sex or kinky sex or gentle sex or quickie sex or a lazy Sunday morning mutual wank or a lengthy seduction in formalwear. 

It has been the best year of Crowley’s long, long life, and if his angel wants to go to the beach, then to the beach they shall go. 

* * *

When they reach whatever spot Aziraphale chose — Crowley honestly wasn’t paying that much attention; he drove where he was told to drive and turned when he was told to turn and just enjoyed the company and the Bentley’s playlist — it’s quiet but not deserted. They collect their things from the boot and head out onto the sand. The angel pauses a few times before selecting a spot to drop the cooler and start setting up. Crowley doesn’t know why that particular bit of sand is better than any other, but he doesn’t care. It’s warm and pale and it’s going to get into his crevices regardless. 

Aziraphale sets out three blankets and the chair while Crowley handles the umbrella. “What’s in the cooler?” he asks. 

“Wine, brie, black raspberry jam, and a baguette. Oh, and a few pignoli biscuits.”

“And thou,” Crowley quips. 

“Unto the end of days,” Aziraphale answers with a warm smile. Crowley hides his blush and pleased grumbling by pulling his shirt over his head, shucking his sandals, brushing off his black swimming trunks, emptying his pockets, and generally just fussing until he can pull himself together. After six millennia of hiding and denial and pining, these open declarations of affection still have the power to undo him. 

When he finally can face his husband again, he tries not to do a double-take. “What are you wearing, angel?”

“This is my bathing costume!” Aziraphale says proudly. He suddenly looks worried. “It’s not too revealing, is it?” He’s wearing a two-piece short-sleeved white-and-yellow-striped bathing suit which hasn’t been in style for in over a century. The only thing it reveals is the angel’s inviting plushness.

Crowley gives him a small, slow smile. He tips down his glasses just a bit to look at Aziraphale fondly. “It’s fine, love. It suits you.” Aziraphale beams. “Is that original?” 

“It is! From 1911!” He wiggles in delight. Crowley is so helplessly charmed that he bites back any other comment he was going to make and just heads out to the water. 

After perhaps an hour of swimming laps, splashing each other, and playing in the swells, they return to their blankets. The angel settles in his chair with a book and a glass of wine. Crowley stretches out on the towel with a purr. The sun and the sand are deliciously warm after the cool water. If he closes his eyes he’s going to go right to sleep, out in public. “ ’S too nice here,” he complains.

As always, Aziraphale understands what he means. The angel looks up and down the beach. “There are only two families here, and they’ll be leaving in the next half hour. I’ll make sure no one sees you if change form. You may nap if you like, my dear.” 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. The demon dozes off with an angel watching over him.

* * *

Aziraphale gasps. “Oh no!” 

Crowley comes awake all at once. “What is it?” He hasn’t been sleeping that long; what could have happened?

Aziraphale is already standing, taking off hat and sunglasses. “It’s — there’s a child, out beyond the swells. Over by that outcropping. She’s drowning.” 

“I’m on it.” Crowley runs for the surf faster than the angel and dives in, and then teleports to where she is. He scoops her up and gets her above the water. She clings to him and coughs and he makes soothing noises. She’s about five.

“You’re all right now, niblet,” he murmurs in her ear. “Let’s go back to shore, yeah?” She shakes her head _violently_. He hums, interested, worried.

“Not the shore, huh?” She nods, coughs again. “You’re scared of something.” She doesn’t quite shrug. “Some _one_?” She nods, a tiny movement. “Kids giving you a bad time of it?” No. “Family?” A more emphatic yes. “Brother or sister?” No again. Crowley’s stomach sinks. “Mum and dad?”

“Dad,” she says, muffled, into his shoulder. Ah, shit. Poor little girl. 

“Hmm, and why is that?”

“You won’t believe me.” 

He strokes her wet hair. “I used to be a nanny. It was my _job_ to believe what my children told me.” 

“Men can’t be _nannies_ ,” she objects.

“They _can_ , but more importantly...” He leans down to whisper in her ear, although no one can possibly hear them. “I’m not always a man.” 

She frowns, digesting this. They bob for a moment out beyond the edge of the tide’s crest. He lets her have her silence. Eventually she speaks.

“He hurts me.” Crowley tries not to tense all over, but his teeth clench.

“How does he hurt you?”

A longer silence. There’s no one in the world but them. 

“He comes into my room at night.” 

“Does he hit you?”

“No.”

“What does he do?” Crowley’s voice is very soft.

“He — he kisses me. Special kisses. He says I’m his special girl. Says it’s our secret. That Mummy can’t know. She’d be upset.” 

Fire rages in Crowley’s head for a moment. He’s glad of his sunglasses, because he knows his eyes are glowing red with fury, and he doesn’t want to frighten the child.

“And you don’t want him to kissss you like that.” His voice is steady, but little hisses escape. “Because it’sss the way daddies should kiss mummiesss. Not the way daddiesss should kissss their daughters.” She nods. “Ssso what were you doing out here in the water?”

She sits up to look at him. “I was — ” Her face crumples. 

“Were you trying to die?” He gives the question all the seriousness it deserves.

“I was trying to find Ariel,” she whimpers. 

“Who’s Ariel?”

“The little mermaid!”

“What, from that cartoon?”

“Yes!” She wipes water from her face. “My friend Sarah said Ariel protects people. If you go in the water and you’re about to drown and you ask her for help, she’ll save you and come take you to her underwater castle in ’Lantis and you don’t have to live on land any more. You can be a mermaid. She’ll keep you safe.” She sniffles. 

“Ah, I see.” There’s the cry of a gull. “What’s your name?”

“Sam,” she tells him.

“I’m Mister Crowley,” he says. “Now, I can tell you that Ariel doesn’t live around here.” She sobs once, gulps it back. He leans in. “But _I_ do. And do you know what I am?” She shakes her head. “Can you open your eyes under water?” She nods. He looks over at the shore, but the view is blocked by the large black spike of rock. “Hold your breath and duck under with me a mo’.” She pinches her nose and they go under.

Crowley spreads his wings, wide and dark. She stares. He lets her look, and then brings her back up. The shop is going to stink of damp feathers for a few days, but this is more important. 

“You’re an _angel!_ A real live angel!” she gasps when they break the surface.

“That’s right.” _Fallen angels are **still angels** ,_ he thinks fiercely at anyone (or Anyone) who might be listening and want to challenge him in front of this child. “And so is my husband Mister Fell.” He raises an eyebrow. “And we _really_ don’t like it when people hurt little girls.” Hell might approve of what this man had done. _Crowley_ does not approve. This man is going to _suffer_.

“You’re under our protection now,” he tells her. “And with your permission — ” Because no one is _ever_ going to touch Sam without her permission for the rest of her life, not even him. “ — I’ll put my mark on you so he can’t ever hurt you again.” She nods, and he lightly kisses her forehead. 

“It tingles!” 

“That’s my blessing,” he says softly. There have been a few key moments over the millennia when he has been _really really_ glad he’d worked out that fallen angels could still give blessings. The Arrangement had been convenient; this is something else altogether. “I’d like to head back to shore, and Mister Fell and I are going to have a nice little _chat_ with your dad.” Sam nods again. He puts her arms around his neck and begins swimming, although it’s more of a stiff-armed glide, in complete defiance of whatever is actually happening in the water.

“So where is your mum in all this?”

“Mummy and Dad are divorced. I was living with Mummy but she got fired and she can’t find another job, so the judge said I had to go live with Dad.” 

“Hmm.” Crowley continues in. Aziraphale is soothing a fat man with frazzled hair and a big beard; they are floating about half way to shore. They don’t see him yet. “What are your parents’ names?”

“My mummy’s name is Paula. Dad’s name is Angus.” She tightens around his neck. 

Crowley checks up and down the beach. There is no one else there. “Ready, Sam?”

“For what?”

“For this.” Crowley stops planking, straightens, and begins to rise. The water pours off and his clothes pour on: black shirt, gray waistcoat, black jacket, silver scarf, black jeans, gleaming boots. He strides across the surface of the water, purpose undulating in every line of him. Sam hangs onto him, piggyback, effortless.

“Hello.” 

Time freezes. The sea stops moving. 

The man whips around, or tries to: he’s stuck in the water like gelatin. His mouth opens in shock. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Missster Crowley,” he says, in a _very particular_ tone of voice, and tips an imaginary hat. Aziraphale gets the message instantly, and he too rises above the water, dry and fully dressed. “I see you’ve already met Missster Fell.” The man turns back and looks up, _up_ , at Aziraphale, who is still calm but very much _not_ soothing, and resting his hands on the pommel of a sword. This is not their first rescue.

“ _What_ the hell are you?”

“Sssam is under our protection now, _Angussssss_ ,” Crowley hisses. “You don’t get to hurt her. Not ever again.” 

The man’s face reddens. “She’s _my_ kid. Where d’you get off tellin’ me what I can’t do?”

Aziraphale’s voice is deceptively mild. “As I believe my husband just told you... we’re Sam’s guardian angels.” He spreads his wings, wide and white, and Angus rears back as much as he can while stuck. 

“Sam, how long has this been going on?” Crowley asks. 

She shrugs and looks down. “Since always,” she mumbles. 

“May I see?” She shrinks back but nods, once, very small, and he lightly, so lightly touches the surface of her mind, a feather-brush into her memories. “Sssssince she was _two_ ,” he snarls at the man, furious. The red sheen is covering his vision again. “You ssssssick ssssonofabitch.” 

Aziraphale is disgusted and outraged. “You had to peel off her diapers to molest her. You piece of _filth_.” He raises his sword. “Sam, my dear, you may choose not to watch this if you prefer.” She ducks her head behind Crowley’s... but not entirely.

“What are you goin’ ta _do_ to me?” Angus cries. “You can’t do this! You’re not coppers!”

“Call it — divine retribution.” The sword comes down and flashes, once, twice, thrice. Angus looks, panting, but there’s no blood. 

“Ha!” he shouts, a smile starting to twist his blotchy face. “You missed, you flying poofter!”

“Did I?” Aziraphale says pleasantly, settling the sword tip back onto the immobile waves. “This is a vorpal blade. It doesn’t harm the flesh. It cleaves the _spirit_.”

“Wh-whuzzat even mean?” The man twists back and forth between the two vengeful figures. 

“It means Jusssssticcccce,” Crowley hisses at him. 

“Your hands will function,” Aziraphale informs him, “but you won’t be able to touch Sam any more.” He leans to the side and peers down. “And as for that other part of your anatomy — ” He clears his throat delicately. “I’m afraid that’s not going to work at all. Ever again.”

The man screams and tries to cover his genitals with both hands. Crowley smirks: the useless covering the useless. “Damn you!” he shrieks.

“Nah. You did that to yoursssself.” 

“Sam?” Aziraphale asks. “Is there anything you think... _this man_ should be saying to you?” 

She peeps out from behind Crowley. “He should say he’s sorry.” 

“Sorry?!” Angus screams. “I got nothin’ ta be sorry for! You’re _my_ kid! You belong ta _me_! It’s these blokes, these — whatever the hell you are, _you_ oughta be the ones who’s sorry! Scarin’ me, trappin’ me like this, kidnappin’ my kid, tellin’ my dick don’t work no more!”

The angel shakes his head sadly. “You’re leaving me no choice, you know.” He sighs, and then squares his shoulders. “I greatly dislike this sort of thing, but needs must when — well.” 

A grin full of teeth spreads too widely across Crowley’s face. “Watch this, niblet,” he murmurs over his shoulder to Sam.

White-gold flames lick along the angel’s blade. Their flickering is the only sound in the still-frozen world. 

Aziraphale points his burning sword at Angus. “I curse you,” the angel pronounces, low and clear. “I curse you with _remorse_. Every hour, every moment, every breath you draw, day and night, night and day, waking and sleeping, you will be pierced with regret for what you’ve done.” The man gasps and shudders.

“I curse you with _guilt_. The weight of your actions will never lift. You will carry it all your days.” The man doubles over where he’s stuck as though he’s taken an anvil on his shoulders.

Crowley feels Sam sit up, hears her breathe out in relief.

“I curse you with _shame_ ,” Aziraphale continues, relentless, voice rising. “What you did was _wrong_. It was filthy, and cruel, and the deepest violation of a sacred trust. You will never be able to lift your head in public. You will never deserve friendship or kindness. You are _unworthy_ of being loved, ever again.” 

Angus crumples under the tonnage of his sins and sprawls on the unmoving surface of the sea, sobbing. Sam squeezes Crowley around the neck and snuggles close. He covers her hands with his. 

“You’re going to turn yourself in to the police,” the angel concludes. His words ring, hammers on steel. “You’re going to confess everything you’ve done. And then you’re going to go to jail. For a very. Long. Time.” 

Angus screams again and babbles, but Crowley’s lost interest. “Shall we go see your mum, Sam?”

“What are you going to tell her?”

Crowley dives back into the water, his suit melting away as time restarts.

“That you can come live with her again.”

“But the judge says she needs a job!”

“I think very shortly she’s going to find herself a really _good_ job. Great pay,” Crowley tells her. “And that judge is going to change his mind.”

“Can it be in Manchester?” she asks. “My gran lives in Manchester. We never get to see her.” 

“It certainly can.” 

“Thank you, Guardian Angel,” she says. He can hear her voice is getting wobbly but she’s trying not to cry.

“You go ahead and let it all out, niblet,” he tells her. “Doesn’t do you any good keeping it bottled up. You’re safe now. Mister Fell and I have seen to that.” 

She sobs into his shoulders. He scans the shore; the other family has left. He takes her in his arms once they reach the shallows, and brings his wings out to cup around her like a swan. A damp swan who desperately wants a strong drink. _Later_ , he promises himself. Right now there are police to contact and custody agreements to miracle and a child to look after. The strong drink will be for later that night, when he can cry in Aziraphale’s arms about how disgusting humans can be sometimes.

* * *

_Later_ turns out to be a few nights later, because all the paperwork takes longer than either of them had anticipated, even with miracles to hustle things through the red tape. But Angus is locked up and never getting out, and Sam is safely situated with her mother and grandmother in a freshly refurbished house two blocks from her mum’s excellent new job, so all is finally well. 

Crowley has his strong drink and good cry, and so does Aziraphale. They curl up together in bed afterwards, needing the comfort of a warm embrace and a strong heartbeat. 

“Despite what happened in the afternoon, did you at least enjoy the morning on the beach?” Aziraphale asks him. Crowley is pillowed on his shoulder, enjoying the feel of the angel’s fingers carding through his hair.

“I did,” he answers. 

“I’ve been thinking about — relocating,” Aziraphale continues, a little hesitantly. “Not entirely giving up the bookshop, but — finding a place for us. A place that’s ours, _just_ ours, from the start. Ours together.” 

“I’d like that,” Crowley says softly. Aziraphale squeezes him the slightest bit. “And you want to be near the beach?” 

“There are some lovely cottages in the South Downs I’ve been looking at,” the angel admits. “I find that after a few centuries in a city I need to be out in the open air for a while.” 

“That sounds nice,” Crowley says. “I’ve been doing something thinking myself.” He starts tracing aimless patterns on Aziraphale’s soft skin. “About how we’re on our own side, but — we’re on the humans’ side too. Obviously _not_ that — that — ”

“Piece of shit?” Aziraphale supplies helpfully.

“ — right, but, but the — the kids, and the mums who can’t get help, and the queer kids who don’t have anywhere else to go, and — I just — we could help more, I think. In more human ways. Being — being a presence. A shelter. Guidance. I dunno.” 

“Feeding the hungry, clothing the naked?” 

“If they need that. Just — a place — ” He struggles to articulate the thoughts which have been building. “A safe place. A shoulder to cry on. Somewhere to hide for an hour. A friend. A place where they’ll be believed and not judged.” 

“In the South Downs?” 

“No, _here_. Bring the rare books to — to our house, wherever we’re going to be living, and keep the, the, not the less valuable ones, but the ones which are meant to be shared here. Make it more of a library. Make the shop more of a — a center. A home away from home. A home for people who don’t have one. Or don’t feel like they have one.” 

Aziraphale squeezes him again, more of a proper hug this time. “That’s brilliant,” he pronounces. “I love the idea.”

“Good.” Crowley shifts, nestles closer, threads his fingers into Aziraphale’s. “Tell me about these cottages.”

* * *

Everything happens pretty quickly after that. Crowley wanted things to be in place by the start of the school term, so that students starting in a new grade or a new school have somewhere to escape. Aziraphale just wanted his truly precious books out of the shop so he didn’t have to argue about not selling them any more. 

There are still bookshelves, of course, but now they surround couches and squashy chairs and small tables and conversation nooks. There are laptops with wifi. There’s a small kitchenette, which can only be found by people who know it’s there. The back has added a number of small rooms with beds, and doors which lock. 

“I think you’ve done a lovely job, my dear,” Aziraphale tells Crowley proudly as they pull up the shades. 

“I hope so.” He peers down the block, but it’s too early for much foot traffic. “I started a few rumors, threw some suggestions around, dropped hints in the right ears.” 

“I meant with the decorating, but that too, of course. We can’t help people if they don’t know to come.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses. “Angel, you radiate _love_ and _safety_ for a mile in every direction. People will come.” He unlocks the door and strides out onto the pavement, then turns around to admire the new gold lettering against the warm brown wood above the doorway.

The angel follows him, tucks his hand into Crowley’s arm. “Love Dares,” he reads. They both take a moment to let the inevitable earworm wash through them. “You really took that ‘guardian angel’ business to heart, didn’t you.” 

Crowley shrugs, one-shouldered. “I think we’re more like... lifeguards,” he says at last. “We can’t monitor all of them, all the time, but — we can help someone if they’re drowning.” 

The angel beams at him. “To our posts, then?”

He gestures grandly. “After you, angel.” Aziraphale goes back into the shop, and Crowley follows him, to start the first day of the next part of the rest of their lives. 


End file.
